


You Deserve It

by the_technicolor_whiscash



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Confessions of love, Depression, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Episode: s01e10 Number Crunch, all the fun stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 11:07:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21117776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_technicolor_whiscash/pseuds/the_technicolor_whiscash
Summary: John has just gotten shot, and he’s taking some time to recuperate. But he’s restless and unhappy, not being able to work. Plus, he feels as though he doesn’t deserve the treatment Finch is giving him.





	You Deserve It

**Author's Note:**

> But wait he isn’t dead- SHIA SURPRISE. Yes, in fact, I am not dead. I was on a bit of a hiatus for a while, since I’ve been CRAZY busy with college, but I cranked this one out over the weekend since I missed writing so much. Hopefully I’ll be able to get back into it once my life evens out but in the meantime don’t expect a lot of new fics. Sorry, y’all, but that’s how life is.

John’s head was swimming as he woke up. It had been a few days since the sniper had shot him, since he had almost died. With each passing day he felt a little less terrible, but getting shot was still no walk in the park. He had been shot before, but this… this was bad. It would be a while before he felt well enough to get back to his regular day job. Even longer before he could take a punch the way he used to.

John sighed. He was getting old. 

He slid himself into his wheelchair and wheeled himself into the hotel room’s small kitchenette. Of course, Finch had stocked it with every imaginable breakfast option. John noticed that everything in the kitchen was within reach from wheelchair height. Either Finch was being fantastically considerate, or he had had experience in a wheelchair. John had a feeling it was the latter. 

He poured himself a bowl of Count Chocula and wheeled himself over to the tv, switching it on. Naturally, nothing interesting was on at 7:00 AM on a Tuesday. He turned the tv off, focusing on his cereal. 

The silence of the hotel room was deafening. Sure, he could still hear the sounds of the city, but the walls must’ve had some kind of soundproofing. It made John restless. He was so used to being out on the street, in the middle of the action, with Finch’s voice in his ear. 

Finch was the only reason John was alive right now. And John felt guilty about that. He felt like Finch should have just left him in that parking garage, left him to bleed out. John was expendable. There were hundreds, thousands of other people out there with the same skills he had, many of whom did not have the same history of depression and alcoholism. Finch could find a suitable replacement in minutes. 

John couldn’t understand why Finch was so determined to keep him alive. Finch was kind to most people, of course, but what he did for John was above and beyond. He didn’t deserve it. 

That didn’t mean he didn’t like it. 

John’s phone rang. Speak of the devil. 

“Ah, Mr Reese. I wondered if you’d be awake.” Harold said. He sounded tired. John knew the man didn’t get enough sleep. 

“Decided to sleep in a little. Woke up at 7 instead of 5.”

“My, you’re turning into quite the degenerate. What will I do with you?” 

John smiled. He liked it when Finch was cheeky. It was a glimpse underneath that hard outer shell that Harold so favored. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out. Have we got another number?”

“We did, but I got Fusco to take care of it. A simple fix, domestic issues. Nothing to worry you with.” 

“It’s almost like you don’t need me anymore. Looks like you and Fusco are handling yourselves.”

A pause. “I assure you, Mr Reese, it’s much easier with you around. And you’re a little faster than Detective Fusco. Believe it or not, I called to check in. Are you finding the accommodations adequate?”

“I would’ve been happy with a pay-by-hour motel.”

“I’m sure, but I’d rather you not catch a mysterious disease right after you’ve been shot. And the food, is that alright?”

“It’s great, Finch. Honestly. You don’t need to go through all this trouble for me.”

“It’s no trouble. I can stop by later with dinner, if you’d like.”

“Yeah. That’d be nice.” It wasn’t a lie. It would be nice. And it’d help with the silence, having Finch there. “And the next time there’s a number, I can help with, I don’t know, surveillance or something.”

“There’s no need. Just focus on recuperating.”

Ha. That wouldn’t be hard to do, stuck in this hotel with nothing to do.

“I left you some books on the table, if you’re looking to fill the time.” Harold continued. 

“Some of your favorites?”

“A few. And some I thought you might enjoy, though I don’t quite know your taste in literature.”

“Neither do I. I never had much time to read for pleasure in the field.” 

“Well, now you will. Unless you’d prefer the daytime soaps.”

“I think I’ll take the books.” John could tell that the conversation was spiraling towards a close. “Well, call me if you get another number.” 

“I’ll keep you informed. Just focus on getting better.” 

“Don’t worry about me, Harold. I’ll be fine.”

“I know, John. I just… never mind. We’ll discuss it later.” Harold quickly hung up. 

That was odd. Harold didn’t normally hang up so abruptly. Especially with such a weird statement at the end. What did he want to talk about? Was Harold going to fire him? How would one even be fired from a position like his? 

No, chances were, Harold wasn’t going to fire him. Maybe it would be a lecture on workplace safety. Or a “this is a one time deal and if you get hurt again I’m leaving you for dead” kind of lecture. Though that didn’t seem likely, it was still a possibility. The government had left him for dead. Why shouldn’t Harold? 

The thought depressed John. He was nothing without this job, without Harold. He couldn’t go back to a regular life. He wouldn’t know how. Knowing himself, he’d just end up drunk, or dead on the side of a backroad before getting eaten by a bear. 

John ran a hand down his face. It probably wasn’t healthy to think like that. But his general life experiences had left him with less-than-average self esteem. Work helped. And right now, he couldn’t work. 

Maybe now would be a good time to figure out how to shower with all these bandages on. 

\---------

Harold was concerned about John. Not that he wasn’t always. But he was concerned even more, now that John had been so severely shot. 

He had told John about the fact he had gotten him fixed up with a trustworthy doctor. But what he hadn’t mentioned was how touch-and-go it was. He also didn’t mention that John’s heart had stopped during surgery. 

So, yes, needless to say, Harold was worried. 

Plus, there were some things that John had said. The fact that John wanted Harold to leave him, to let him die in that parking garage, was rather unsettling. John didn’t seem to care if he lived or died. He would sacrifice himself, for the sake of saving someone else. 

Truthfully, Harold hadn’t known John for long. Not long by his terms, anyway. But he trusted John, more than he had trusted anyone else in a while. In fact, John probably knew more about Harold than Grace ever did. Which was part of why, against all odds, he had fallen in love with him. 

It was stupid, really. At first, he had simply recognized John as attractive. Because he was. Very attractive. But Harold was a man who had a lot of people wanting to kill him, and thus a pretty face was not typically enough to sway him into romance. Then, they began working together, and Harold began acutely noticing every time John stepped a little too close to him, or brushed a shoulder past him, or tapped his elbow. John was an easy man to fall in love with. The harder thing was not letting him know. 

There were a number of reasons why Harold hadn’t told John. Most of them were horribly selfish, like the fact that he didn’t want John to stop working for him if he didn’t feel the same way. But he also knew that it would be a risk if the two of them were to engage in something beyond the realm of friendship. It would be a bigger excuse for their various and numerous enemies to want to use one of them as leverage against the other. 

If it really came to it, Harold would sacrifice his life for John. And he had a feeling John would do much the same. Harold had said from the beginning, one or both of them was probably going to end up dead. It tore him apart. But it was a necessary risk, in order to save others.

Harold had told John he would never lie to him. Not telling him the complete truth, that was a whole different story. But, if John ever found out, ever discovered Harold’s affection for him, then Harold wouldn’t deny it. Whether that would affect their working relationship was yet to be seen. 

For now, Harold was left pondering what he should bring John for dinner. Something hearty, to bring John’s spirits up. And nothing overly pretentious. John teased Harold about his expensive tastes, even though that suit John wore couldn’t have cost less than $500. 

Pizza wouldn’t cut it. But the diner down the street made food to-go, and he knew John liked it. That would probably work.

\----------------

There was a knock on the door. John wheeled himself over, hand on his gun, even though he knew who it was. A glance through the handicapped-accessable peephole confirmed it. He undid the latch, and opened the door with a smile. 

“Hey, Finch.” John said, rolling himself away from the door and only slightly hitting the entryway table. He could smell food coming from the bag in Harold’s hand. “What’s for dinner?”

“I stopped by the diner down the street. I didn’t quite know what you’d want, so I got a variety of things.” Harold sat the bag down on the small dining room table and grabbed some plates from the kitchen as John closed the door. “Some waffles and eggs and other things. Bacon too, since I know you like it.”

“Thank you. For the food and for all this. You really didn’t need to.”

Harold looked as though John may as well have punched him in the gut. “I told you, it’s no trouble. You were shot, John. You deserve to relax for a little while.” 

“Frankly, I don’t think I know how to.” 

“Having a waffle is a good start.” 

John rolled up to the table, and slid himself into one of the seats. Being in a wheelchair was definitely a test of his upper body strength. He grabbed a plate and plopped a waffle onto it from one of the to-go boxes. “I just feel like I’m useless here. I’ve never liked having nothing to do.”

“You could always read. Or watch tv. Or if you’d like, I could bring over some board games.”

“I feel like I have to work. To do something, anything to help out with the numbers.”

“Fusco and I have it under control.”

“That’s not the problem. I just… I don't know. Whenever I’m not working, I feel like I don’t have a purpose.”

“You do have a purpose. And you’ll get back to it, as soon as your wound is healed up. This isn’t forever, John. I of all people should know.”

John nodded. 

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

John raised an eyebrow. That was definitely not something he expected. “Sure, I guess.”

“Are you alright?”

“I just got shot, I can honestly say I’ve had better days.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Harold paused. “Only, you’ve seemed somewhat depressed. So I wanted to know, are you alright emotionally?”

John found himself staring into the middle distance. Was he alright? Probably not. Definitely not. But that was his problem to deal with, not Harold’s. Harold had plenty of other things to concern himself with. 

“I’m sorry if it’s too prying-”

“No, no. I’m just thinking. I mean, I don’t feel great, but it’s nothing to bother you with.”

“It’s not a bother. I don’t mind.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.” Harold’s voice was soft, almost delicate. It was as though he was trying not to step too close to John’s boundaries, while still scraping the surface for information. “If you want to talk, I’m here for you. I understand if you don’t, but I want you to know that you have the option.”

John was at a loss for words. There were very few people in John’s life who had ever been willing to listen to his problems. None of them had ever been his employers. Then again, Harold was by no means a conventional employer. “Why?”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, why me? I’m nobody special. You could easily replace me with someone more fit for the job.”

A surprising flash of pink spread across Harold’s cheeks. This was as close to flustered as John had ever seen him. “I don’t think I could. You have a unique set of skills. There’s very few people who can do what you do while still retaining an incredible amount of compassion. It would be much harder to replace you than I think you expect.”

“Huh.” John muttered. He felt vaguely like he was experiencing heart palpitations. That happened sometimes, when Harold was being open with him. He brushed it to the side, to deal with at a later time. “Is that what you were talking about on the phone, what you wanted to discuss later?”

“Effectively, yes.” John could tell that Harold was putting his walls back up. “As I said, if it makes you uncomfortable, we don’t have to mention it again.” 

“It’s fine. I’m just not used to it is all. But thank you. It’s… nice.”

\-------------

They spent the rest of their dinner in a silence that was only slightly awkward. Harold was mentally kicking himself. He just should’ve told John how he felt. Then it would be out there, as excruciating as it might be, instead of just bottling it up. But no, Harold could never take the easy route. 

He meant what he said, though. If John needed him, he’d be there. It wasn’t likely that John would accept the offer, but nonetheless, Harold made it anyway. It was the least he could do. 

After dinner, Harold left without much fanfare. John seemed tired, and Harold didn’t want to disturb him. Instead of returning to one of his houses, Harold went back to the library. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep, so instead, he figured he’d get some work done. It took a lot of time to craft a believable cover identity, so it would hopefully be able to distract him for a while. 

The sun had set long ago by the time Harold finally looked up from his screen. Of course, the lights of the city blocked out the stars. It was sad, really. The one thing Harold missed about living in the middle of nowhere was seeing the stars scattered across the night sky. When he was a child, he had made a point of memorizing all of the major constellations. It was on nights like these where he wished he could still see them. He knew roughly where they were supposed to be at this time of year, an invisible pattern of lights hidden behind a blanket of light pollution. 

Harold stood, stretching. He made his way over to the window and looked out at the city. The library wasn’t a tall building, so he could still clearly see a few people walking down the street. The city was beautiful, in its own way. Having Central Park definitely helped. It significantly reduced the city’s general dreary greyness. And, if he took his glasses off, he could almost convince himself that the city lights were stars. 

It was all too poetic. Indeed, perhaps in another life, Harold was a writer. In a life without the machine. He wondered what it would be like. Would he have met John, in this hypothetical universe? Perhaps John was a police officer, and heroically saved Harold’s life. It was an interesting concept. One he’d have to return to later. 

He almost didn’t hear when his phone rang. “Hello?”

“Hey, Harold. Did I wake you?”

“No, I didn’t sleep. I’ve been working on some cover identities, and got a bit carried away.” He conveniently forgot to add the fact that John was the reason why he couldn’t sleep. “Is there something wrong?”

“No. Well, I haven’t slept either.” John did not choose to elaborate. 

“Is there any particular reason why?”

“It’s too quiet here. I’m used to sleeping with background noise.”

Well, that made sense. Anyone who had to sleep in a war zone would get used to sleeping with some sound in the background. “Have you thought about turning the TV on?”

“Yeah. It didn’t really help. Neither did opening the window.” John paused. Harold could hear him sigh over the phone. “I hate to ask, but would you mind coming over? If it’s not too late.”

“Of course. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“There’s no rush.”

“I know. But I’ll be there in ten.”

Harold called a car and headed across town, making it to John’s room in just over ten minutes. Unfortunately, his injury was acting up, forcing him to take his cane with him. He knocked on the door with the top of his cane, taking care not to be too loud. 

It took a few seconds for John to answer the door. It struck Harold just how tired he looked. Then again, Harold probably didn’t look much better. 

“Thanks for coming.” John says, closing the door behind Harold. “I just… I don’t know. You’re right. I have been depressed.”

“It’s alright. Happens to the best of us.” And John was among the best of people. 

“Want a cup of tea or something?”

“No, thank you. I probably don’t need any more caffeine in my system.” Pain flashed in Harold’s side, and he sat down on the couch. “Though I wish the painkillers could kick in. My injury is acting up.” 

“If it’s too much, you don’t have to stay.” 

“It’s nothing I’m not used to, Mr Reese.” 

John slid from his wheelchair onto the couch. “I’m starting to get used to rolling around. It’s kind of fun.” 

“It is, until you realize how many buildings aren’t handicapped accessible.” 

“I can’t say that surprises me. Hopefully I won’t have to deal with it for long.” 

“I’m sure you’ll be back on your feet soon.” 

Harold noticed John’s hand tapping on the armrest. John was clearly anxious about something. The lack of sleep probably didn’t help. 

\------------

This was a bad idea. This was definitely a bad idea. He should’ve just sat here alone and festered in his own thoughts, instead of bothering Harold. 

But he had bothered Harold and now, now Harold was sitting beside him on the couch at a god-awful hour of the morning. John didn’t really know what to say, beyond the typical small talk. It felt awkward, the two of them just sitting there for no apparent purpose. John didn’t want Harold to leave, but he also didn’t want to continue sitting there silently. 

John cleared his throat. “You wanna watch TV or something?” 

“It’s up to you.”

John did not turn on the tv. 

This was getting excessive. There was absolutely no need for John to be this awkward. It was never like this in the library. But then again, a hotel room was a totally different space. A different atmosphere. When two people were alone in a hotel room, it tended to mean that a very specific action was about to happen. And-

Oh. 

So that was why he felt weird. No shit. 

That definitely threw a wrench into his plans. It made sense, of course. And it wasn’t exactly a stunning realization. It was an accumulation of feelings built up over time. He just needed something to click, to make his brain realize what it all meant. 

What it meant was that he loved Harold, in a way he hadn’t loved in a long time. It made him feel like he had been hit by a bus. 

But he knew that Harold wasn’t the type to jump into a relationship. He didn’t know much about the man, but he knew that. John would have to take it slowly, if he wanted to get anywhere. 

Then again, Harold had already come over in the dead of night with no complaints. He had dedicated an enormous amount of time and money to ensure John’s wellbeing. John already knew Harold better than just about anyone else. Perhaps John had a better chance than he thought. 

There was only one way to find out. John slid a hand onto Harold’s thigh, his touch as light as he could make it. Harold could easily bat it away, should he feel the need. 

Instead, Harold looked down at John’s hand, and back up at John’s face. He raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t telling John off, and that was the important thing. 

Hesitantly, John cupped Harold’s cheek with his other hand. His skin was impeccably soft, and John couldn’t help but lean in and kiss him. Miraculously, Harold didn’t push him away. Harold leaned into it, his mouth sliding perfectly against John’s. John tried to move, to straddle Harold, but he could feel his wound rebelling against him, and the wave of pain forced him to separate, a hand flying to his side. 

“Damnit.” John muttered. “Leave it to a gunshot wound to ruin the fun.”

“Are you alright? Did the wound reopen?”

“No, no, it just hurts. Too much movement.” 

Harold’s hand ghosted over his, over the wound, as though he were afraid to touch it. “You should probably lie down.”

“I’m fine.” John said through gritted teeth.

“John, with all due respect, that’s the worst lie you’ve ever told me.” Harold stood. “Go to bed.” 

“Fine, but under one condition.”

“And what might that be?”

“You come with me.”

“You’re clearly in no state to be doing anything sexual. Quite frankly, neither am I.”

John smiled slyly. “I hadn’t planned on it, but I like the idea. Maybe we can do that another time.”

Harold was blushing an incredibly bright pink, while still maintaining his last shreds of composure. “Maybe we can.” 

John slid into his wheelchair and wheeled himself across the room to his bed. The sheets were already messy, since he had attempted to sleep earlier to no avail, so it wasn’t hard to get himself into bed. He left more than enough room for Harold to lie down comfortably. 

Harold looked for a moment as though he was considering leaving. Concern rose up John’s throat, before Harold set his cane against the bedside table and sat down in bed. He carefully removed his glasses and put them on the table. It then occurred to John that Harold was still wearing his suit from the day before. He had shed his jacket and unbuttoned his waistcoat, but beyond that, he still looked prim and proper. Evidently he hadn’t expected to be spending the night. 

“We should probably talk about this in the morning.” Harold said, rolling onto his side, facing away from John. “About what this means for our professional relationship.”

“You’re right. But that’s for tomorrow.” John put an arm around Harold’s stomach. When he didn’t get pushed away, he wrapped himself further around Harold and nestled his face into the crook of Harold’s neck. “I guess this is what it feels like to relax.” 

“Indeed. It’s quite nice.”

“Tell me, is this why you fought so hard to keep me alive?”

“I would have saved you regardless of whether or not I was in love with you.” Harold placed his hand onto John’s, weaving their fingers together. “Though it did help a little. But you deserve to live, John. You deserve the best.” 

“I don’t know if I believe that, but I appreciate it.” 

“I told you the first day we met that I wouldn’t lie to you. I have no intention of breaking that promise.” 

John took a deep breath. He noted that Harold smelled of a cologne that reminded him of the forest. Perhaps Harold grew up somewhere rural, and the scent reminded him of it. “Thank you.” 

A few minutes passed by. John wondered if Harold had fallen asleep. The prospect was quickly approaching him when he heard Harold mutter softly, “And John?”

“Yes?” 

“You deserve to be loved.”

John felt tears prickling in his eyes. For the first time in his life, he felt like that might actually be true.


End file.
